Heaven Can Wait Standalone
by motley-atypical
Summary: The year is 2013 and Grantaire doesn't believe in past lives. Neither does Enjolras. So when Jean Prouvaire challenges Grantaire to an arm wrestling competition on the terms that if he loses both have to go get a past life regression, he thinks it's going to be easy. As for Enjolras...well, he blames the outcome of the entire thing on Grantaire...


**I call this "My attempt to get back into writing after a ridiculously long hiatus" and as per usual, it ended up much longer than I had originally intended (a good several thousand words longer to be specific). I just really like the idea of the ABC boys being reincarnated. Similarly to my last Les Mis fic, most of the dialogue in italics is lifted directly from the Brick (a different translation from the last one) but I've edited it a bit; omitted certain phrases, moved bits around, added bits in where I had to, kept phrases I liked from other translations that aren't in the particular one I used, and rather than writing it from an omnipresent third party point of view, a lot of it is focalized on Enjolras.**

**I don't own anything. Les Miserables is the intellectual property of Victor Hugo, the translation I used is by Christine Donougher and the title is from the We The Kings song of the same title (no, I'm definitely not any better at coming up with titles). Merry Christmas, folks!**

* * *

In the future, should anyone ask him, he will blame the entire thing on Jean Prouvaire.

Grantaire slouches in the plush, overstuffed chair in the dimly lit waiting room ("mood lit," he had commented with a disdainful snort). His head lolls back against the wall and a vase full of fresh lilies sits on the table in front of him, filling the air with a thick perfume that reminds him of a funeral home. As well as the vase, there are a number of leaflets scattered on the table reading things like _Find Your Past _and _What Can Past Life Regression Do for You? _On the opposite wall there is a closed door that reads "Mme Fantine, Spiritualist – Specialist in communicating with the dearly departed and past-life regression". On entering the waiting room, Grantaire had to bite back the urge to make a pointed statement those to being conflicting ideas. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. What is he even _doing _here? He is a cynic by nature – he doesn't believe in _any _of this crap.

He supposes this is what he gets for making wagers.

Even with his eyes turned to the ceiling, he can still feel the daggers being glared into the side of his head from a chair to his right.

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" he says defensively for the tenth time, "Christ, Apollo, I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

The only response – if it can be called a response – is more sullen silence. Grantaire groans. Prouvaire has a _lot _to answer for.

* * *

All this had started during a meeting of Les Amis de L'ABC – a political activist group that was part of the University of Paris – and all the members had been piled into a back room of the student bar, Corinth. It wasn't their usual meeting place but the nearby coffee shop, Café Musain, was closed for refurbishment. It was way too warm and stuffy in the cramped room that could barely accommodate everyone and after about five minutes, even the most passionate of the group had started to lose interest in the speech their leader – Enjolras –was making; something about rising tuition fees which had been the hot topic for the last two weeks and was now getting to be rather lukewarm. One of the other members that made up the triumvirate of leadership within the society (at least, they called it a triumvirate but they weren't really fooling anyone), Courfeyrac, was sitting staring glassy-eyed at Enjolras and it was difficult to tell if he was actually still awake. The second, Combeferre, made slightly more effort to act like he was listening but his nods of agreement seemed randomly placed like he was just hoping that it was the right thing to do at the time. Everyone else weren't even _pretending _to be listening anymore and not even Enjolras' passion (since he was the only one unaffected by ennui) could re-ignite their interest. Grantaire was sitting at a table near the back of the room, swinging back on his chair and had his feet propped up on the table. Across from him Jean Prouvaire – or Jehan, as he preferred to be called – was doodling intricate flowers interwoven with lines of poetry in the corner of Joly's – a medical student's – lecture notes (Joly, sitting to his left, being too occupied checking his tongue in a compact mirror to notice) while Joly's boyfriend, Bossuet, insisted his tongue _was _a healthy shade of pink and honestly, babe, _please _stop asking.

"Where were you the other night, Prouvaire?" Grantaire asked, "A couple of us went out after the last meeting."

"And I still have the hangover to prove it," Bossuet said with a good-natured grimace.

"Oh," Jehan glanced up and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over his face, "I went to see a spiritualist. You know, one who specialises in past life regression?"

Grantaire raised an eyebrow sceptically, "You mean one of those frauds who charge 100 euros a go to hypnotise gullible people into believing they were Jimi Hendrix or Julius Caesar in a previous life? Why would you waste your time?"

Jehan ignored the jape. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, "I was curious," he answered as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Joly said something incoherent, his tongue still stuck out. Everyone gave him a blank look.

"Sorry," he said and finally put aside the mirror, "I said "what was it like?""

"It was fascinating," Jehan answered dreamily, "I was lying on this couch and the spiritualist – Mademoiselle Fantine, her name was – told me to clear my mind and remember back beyond this life. I remember feeling kind of sleepy-"

"She probably drugged you," Grantaire said matter-off-factly before being shushed by Bossuet.

"-Then the next thing it's 1832. I wasn't just remembering it, I was _living _it," Jehan's eyes were far away, "It was June 5th 1832. There was no calendar but I just _knew_. You were all there! And so were Bahorel, Feuilly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. All of us. It was after General Lamarque's funeral. We built a barricade in the street."

Grantaire shook his head in disbelief but when he turned to look at Bossuet and Joly, he was shocked to find that they were listening intently to every word.

"Bet we all died," Bossuet joked weakly.

"Pretty much _all _the rebels who fought on the barricades during the June rebellions died," Grantaire pointed out with a roll of his eyes.

"I wouldn't know," Jehan continued, "There was a battle. I think Bahorel was killed-" his glance slipped to the next table where Bahorel – a brick shithouse of a guy and the only one who could outdrink Grantaire – was slumped across the table, obviously asleep, "-but then Marius saved the barricade by threatening to blow it up with gunpowder."

"Marius?!" Grantaire scoffed, unable to hold his tongue, "Marius _Pontmercy_?! Now I _really _don't believe you."

Marius Pontmercy was a law student and though he wasn't exactly an active member of the ABC Society, he was Courfeyrac's roommate ("And heterosexual life partner," Courfeyrac often added and sometimes, "Homosexual if he would let me" whenever Marius was in ear shot) and so more often than not came along to meetings and to nights out. He was a nice guy but a bit of an air-head, more interested in talking about his girlfriend than anything else and the last person you'd imagine doing anything reckless. This time when Grantaire was shushed it was accompanied by a slap upside the head by- how long had Feuilly been standing there?! The only non-student member of the society looked as if he bought into it almost as much as the other two did.

"That was all I saw. I was caught on the wrong side of the barricade when the battle was over and executed as a traitor to the crown," Jehan concluded, "I snapped back to reality when the trigger was pulled."

"Whoa…" Joly whispered. Feuilly whistled in awe. Bossuet sat in stunned silence. Grantaire was unimpressed.

"Well wasn't _that _a pleasant ending," he quipped sarcastically. Jehan tilted his head to the side and frowned,

"You don't believe me?"

Grantaire raised his hands in a placating fashion, "Oh, I believe you had _some _kind of vision when the "spiritualist"-" he put in the inverted commas with his fingers, "-put you under. Do I believe it was a true vision of a past life, or even that past lives exist? Like hell I do. You've been taking History of Art for extra credit, right? We've been up to our ears in French Romanticism all year, most of which was directly inspired by the revolutionary movement. Hell, you've got that print from the 1830 rebellion on your wall. And don't even get me _started _on Enjolras and his rants about Rousseau and Robespierre and Victor fucking Hugo so obviously these things are going to be in your mind. Spiritualists are good at exploiting that. The power of suggestion is a powerful tool. You _wanted _to see something so your mind constructed a fantasy based on what was already in your head. If you had been studying…I don't know…Vikings or something you'd probably have imagined being one. As for us all being there – well, that just proves me right, doesn't it? Supposing that past lives _do _exist, what's the likelihood of all of us meeting in another life?" he paused for breath then, trying to think of a way of ending his rant but instead just settled for draining the last of his beer in one go and putting the bottle down on the table with a decisive _thump_. Conversation over.

"Maybe the fascination with that period of French history comes from having lived during it, rather than the fascination leading to what you think is a delusion," Bossuet said to Grantaire. Joly muttered in agreement.

"I've always felt drawn to this part of Paris even when I was a kid growing up in Poland," Feuilly added thoughtfully, "That's why I moved here."

"Maybe we were all supposed to meet again in this life," Jehan suggested.

"Why don't you write a poem about it?" Grantaire retorted sweetly.

"Are you _quite_ done?"

It was Enjolras's sharp voice that made Grantaire realise that every eye in the room was turned towards their table – it appeared that his rant had caught everyone's attention. Enjolras had appeared next to Feuilly, his handsome face wearing an expression that clearly read "how dare you interrupt my meeting". Jehan blushed. Grantaire, who was used to this negative attention from their leader by now, was unabashed.

"Ah! There he is!" he declared raising his empty bottle in a mocking toast, "What's on the agenda for today, fearless leader? Are you going to encourage us to rise up against the government? Boycott a funeral, maybe?"

"Now you're just being a jackass," Bossuet said.

Even for Grantaire this was a rather gratuitous declaration (with the exception of that one time when Marius had interrupted an important meeting by announcing loudly that he was in love. Grantaire had encouraged his amorous speech and had called Enjolras a heartless bastard, taking it almost personally when Enjolras – not altogether untruthfully – had told Marius that nobody cared about his lonely soul).

"Excuse me?" Enjolras asked, slightly caught off guard.

"Ignore him," Jehan mumbled unhappily. He looked like a kicked puppy, "He was making fun of me."

"Not _just _you, mon ami," Grantaire replied as if this was somehow supposed to help, "All you guys who actually believe that past lives are a thing."

"Well, you can't prove they _aren't_," Joly said, jumping on the defensive, "How do you explain people who remember having lives in far-off countries and then it's proved that the person they remember being actually existed?"

"And remember what Marius said that one time?" Bossuet added, "Part of the reason he loved the society so much is because it feels like he's known us before so it was just like being reacquainted with old friends."

"Wasn't that the night Marius was so drunk he ended up getting us all kicked out of here because he was dancing on the bar?" Grantaire asked innocently.

There was a general outbreak of conversation as people debated whether or not they believed in past lives. Bahorel – now very much awake – insisted loudly that he had a birthmark on his chest that sort of looked like a scar made by a stab-wound and that he was willing to take off his top to prove it. Combeferre made a typically diplomatic comment about he wouldn't dismiss such a thing without irrevocable proof that it couldn't exist. Feuilly asked Enjolras what he thought, who just pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance,

"It's highly unlikely that past lives exist – Bahorel _please _put your shirt back on - and I think that spiritualists are exploitative charlatans who prey off the gullible," his tone suggested that he was trying to put an end to this conversation but it backfired spectacularly.

"So you're saying I'm gullible?!" Jehan protested at the same time as Courfeyrac exclaimed, "Hold on, did Enj and R just _agree _on something?!"

Courfeyrac's statement resulted in a further outbreak of conversation; it was practically an unwritten law that Grantaire and Enjolras never agreed on _anything_. Grantaire himself nearly fell backwards out of his seat in shock.

"_Anyway_," Enjolras said loudly after several attempts to restore order had failed, "All of this is completely irrelevant to our meeting. Why is it such a big deal that Grantaire and I agree on something- that was rhetorical, Courfeyrac," he added pointedly as Courfeyrac took a sharp intake of breath, probably preparing to launch into what was sure to be an extensive reply, "We both agree that spiritualists are frauds and past lives don't exist. You're all welcome to believe whatever you want to believe but-"

He was cut short by a short _bang_ as Jehan suddenly put his right elbow down on the table and held out his hand. His expression was determined, "Don't believe me? Let's make a wager on it. R, I challenge you to an arm wrestling competition."

The room fell into a hushed silence. Enjolras threw up his hands in defeat. Grantaire stared. Jehan's arm – like the rest of him – was skinny and pale, made to look even skinner by the baggy sleeves of his oversized lavender jumper. Colourful bands covered his wrists.

"You can't be serious," he scoffed.

"Deadly serious. If you win, I'll buy you drinks for the next week and never mention this again. If I win, you and Enj have to make an appointment for a past life regression."

"And what if you _do_ win," Grantaire's tone of voice suggested that that was extremely unlikely, "And we go to this past life regression. Who's to say that we'll even have a vision of a past life fighting for liberty, equality and fraternity? And if we do, who's to say it wouldn't just be a hallucination?"

"You're so sure of yourself I'm sure your mind would be completely impervious to any sort of manipulation," there was an obvious hint of irony in Jehan's voice, "But I know I'm right about this."

It looked like an arm wrestling competition was liable to _break _Jehan's arm but Grantaire could tell that he wasn't going to back down; besides, why refuse the chance to have someone else pay for your drinks? Grantaire smiled,

"You're on," he turned to Enjolras, "If you permit it that is."

"Why am I being dragged into this?" Enjolras scowled. He had accepted that the meeting wasn't going to continue as planned; a crowd had gathered around the table.

"You both don't believe me either so I want to prove both of you wrong," Jehan said simply.

"This is immature," Enjolras said.

"What's the matter?" Grantaire added with a grin, "Afraid that I'll lose? I'm insulted by how little faith you have in me."

His words had their desired effect. Enjolras's jaw set determinedly and he folded his arms,

"Fine," he spat, "Get on with it."

Bahorel leaned over and whispered something to Bossuet who nodded. They shook hands. Grantaire placed both feet flat on the floor and rolled the sleeves of his hoodie up. He wasn't exactly muscular - not like Bahorel – but years of gymnastics and boxing had given him good arm strength although he didn't think much of that strength would be required. Jehan was smiling slightly - he was quite possibly the least intimidating opponent Grantaire had ever faced. He put his own elbow on the table and clasped his hand tightly with Jehan's. This was going to be easy.

* * *

As for Enjolras, he blames the entire thing on Grantaire; he just _had _to open his mouth then he _completely _underestimated Jehan's strength.

It had been almost comical, really, though Enjolras – now sitting in the waiting room to the right of Grantaire – can't really see the funny side. When the match had commenced Grantaire had obviously thought it would be an easy victory; to see his expression changed from a downright smug grin to one of confusion as his push didn't move Jehan's hand at all had made for an interesting sight. Jehan had frowned and said, "Don't patronise me" and Grantaire had realised that it wasn't going to be so easy after all. It wasn't exactly a comprehensive victory; for the most part it had been pretty evenly matched but Jehan had won in the end, forcing the back of Grantaire's hand down against the table. Bahorel had whopped, Bossuet had cursed and handed him 50 euros and Grantaire had just stared in horror.

Enjolras has barely said two words to Grantaire since and the silence makes sitting in this stifling room all the more unpleasant; Grantaire keeps trying to break the silence but Enjolras is absolutely determined that he isn't going to speak to him unless he absolutely _has _to.

"This is partially your own fault you know," Grantaire says.

"How is this in _any way _my fault?" he snaps.

Well, so much for that. This one angry sentence is the only encouragement that Grantaire needs. He glances at Enjolras and shrugs in a pseudo-casual way,

"You didn't have to agree to Jehan's terms."

Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, "I wasn't going to be accused of cowardice."

"It was just an arm-wrestling competition," he sounds amused, "You said it yourself that it was immature."

"It was a matter of principle."

"Principle?!" his grin widens, "So there it is, it was your own damn fault for being proud and yet you would rather just play the martyr," he pauses and adds jokingly, "You're lucky it wasn't life or death."

"Like you would put yourself in the firing line if it was life or death," Enjolras's reply is sharp and filled with malice. Grantaire's smile falters a little,

"Christ, Enjolras, I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere."

Enjolras scoffs, "Because that's what you do. You never take _anything _seriously and now, thanks to you, I have to waste my time here when there are better things I can be doing. But do you care? No. Everything is just a big joke to you. If you had just kept your mouth shut and wallowed in your drunkenness as you usually do, we wouldn't be here."

Now Grantaire's smile really _has _vanished.

"I didn't realise my existence offended you so much," he says, trying to sound nonchalant but Enjolras can hear the real hurt behind his words and he finds himself regretting what he had said.

Grantaire lets his head fall back miserably against the wall and the silences that falls between them then is several times more painful than it had been before. Enjolras opens his mouth – to apologise? He isn't entirely sure but he has to break the silence somehow.

"R-" he begins but at that moment the door on the opposite wall swings open. A middle-aged woman leaves the room, dabbing the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief,

"Thank you, Mademoiselle, and bless you," she murmurs in a thick voice.

There is a younger woman standing in the doorway behind her.

"Good afternoon," she said sweetly, turning her attention to Enjolras and Grantaire. Her smile wavers ever so slightly as she regards them – perhaps from the expression on both their faces – but she carries on regardless, "I am Mademoiselle Fantine."

Enjolras isn't sure just what he had been expecting of the spiritualist; perhaps an old woman who looks like a walking stereotype of a gypsy. However, aside from perhaps the clothes (a floor-length pink dress and a gauzy white shawl), Fantine isn't it. She is perhaps in her early to mid-thirties - her face has a sort of radiant timelessness to it which makes it hard to tell - and is beautiful; her blonde hair is pinned back away from her face and her large, clear blue eyes sparkle.

"You must be Enjolras and Grantaire?" she asks. Enjolras makes a noise that might have been assent but Grantaire mutters under his breath,

"You're the psychic, you tell me."

Fantine just smiles a very white smile, "Ah, of course, the cynic. I should have known. Well, if one of you gentlemen wants to come with me," she gestures into the room behind her.

Grantaire stands up, "Since this thing is _entirely _my fault-" his voice is laden with sarcasm, "I'll go first," he grins at Enjolras – though it doesn't reach his eyes – and gives a dramatic kind of flourish, "See you on the other side."

Both he and Fantine disappear through the door which clicks closed behind them.

Without anyone to glare at, Enjolras is left at a loose end and he can't stop himself from feeling ashamed. He's angry at R, yes, but his words – or rather, the way he had spat them out – were out of line. Despite what Grantaire thinks, Enjolras doesn't hate him; he just, quite simply, doesn't understand him. Grantaire is loud, cynical, infuriating, a personification of vice and self-loathing…but there is so much potential below that front. He's talent. Hell, he's one of the smartest guys in the ABC society and he doesn't even seem to know it. He can and often does methodically tear down Enjolras's well researched speeches with ease, pointing out flaws that Enjolras hasn't seen himself but stick out like a sore thumb as soon as they're noticed. It angers Enjolras no end and often leads to arguments but – and he wouldn't admit this to anyone – it would strengthen his argument. It gives him the opportunity to go back and fix the flaws, leaving no grounds for disagreement. Grantaire just won't – or perhaps can't – believe that he is more than just the drunk cynic who likes to pick a fight. He both fascinates and infuriates Enjolras who, yes, is a little needlessly cruel at times…but isn't that better than just grabbing him by the shoulders, giving him a good hard shake and telling him to sort his life out? If just one of his jibes got through…won't that help? Enjolras doesn't know quite why it matters to him so much or why he spends so much time thinking about the other man.

No, that's not quite true. Sometimes he has an inclination deep down that he knows _exactly _why it matters, especially those times when he catches Grantaire staring at him for perhaps a little too long…but no, he dismisses such a dangerous thought. He can't allow himself to think like that.

He is so lost in his reveries he is startled when the opposite door opens again. The clock on the wall alerts him to the fact that almost half an hour has passed. Grantaire walks out of the room wearing a determinedly impassive expression but his face below the mass of dark curls has paled significantly.

"Your turn," he says. He throws himself into a seat, "I'll wait for you out here."

"Are you alright?" Enjolras asks.

"Me? I'm absolutely dandy," he doesn't exactly sound it. His voice is faraway, distracted and he can't seem to meet Enjolras's eye.

"What did you see?"

Grantaire taps the side of his nose with his finger, "Ah, that's a question for another time, dear Apollo. Mademoiselle is waiting."

Enjolras suddenly wonders if he's doing the right thing and if it's perhaps too late to make an excuse to leave. No. He has to do this. He said it himself – it's principle.

"See you in a bit then," he says.

Fantine's office is much larger than the waiting room though only slightly brighter; the only light is being produced by so many sweet-smelling candles it's probably a health risk. In the centre of the room there is a large plush futon with a stool sitting next to it. Fantine is perched daintily on the stool, her hands clasped on her lap and ankles crossed. She glances up as Enjolras enters the room.

"You have a bright aura," she says, "An inner anger, passion and strength unlike anything I've ever seen before. You're an old soul and an old soul who has seen a lot, at that. No new soul could burn like that. No wonder people are drawn to you."

The strangest thing about Fantine's statement isn't the words themselves, he had been expecting something like that, but the tone she had said them in; matter-of-fact, as if she was simply pointing out that Enjolras was wearing a jacket.

"I'll take your word for it," he replies somewhat coolly and not without slight confusion. She smiles a little as if enjoying some inside joke then indicates the futon,

"Well, lie down."

Enjolras reluctantly does so.

"Most people come to me because they feel within themselves that there are memories that they've forgotten. It's a phenomenon that's only common with old souls. I simply guide them to help them remember the past. Or," she pauses and grins "They've lost wagers and were forced to come here."

Enjolras smiles a little despite himself, "I guess I've never really felt I've forgotten any old memories," he says.

Fantine hums, "Sometimes it shows itself in more complicated ways. Like being drawn to certain people even though you haven't met them before or feeling particularly empathetic to a certain historical event or period."

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, even Marius…there is not one of those men that Enjolras hadn't clicked with instantly almost as if…well, like Marius had said that one night, almost like they were simply old friends rediscovering each other. And Grantaire. Well…his feelings there are complicated. As for the historical period…no, this is stupid. Fantine is just trying to manipulate him. He internally scolds himself. It's exactly this that makes people stupid enough to believe in past lives.

Fantine is once more wearing that enigmatic smile of someone enjoying a private joke, "Let's get started," she says, "Close your eyes."

Once more Enjolras reluctantly obeys. He hears a switch being flicked and a gentle music fills the room. He has to stop himself from laughing scornfully; peddler's tricks.

"The music is just to help you clear your mind and relax you," she says.

"Make me more susceptible to hypnotism, you mean."

Fantine actually laughs then, a gentle noise that tinkles like a bell, "You and Grantaire…when I first saw you both I thought I had never seen two auras more antagonistic towards each other. But perhaps it's one of those occasions were the auras that seem the most opposite are actually the most compatible. You're more alike than either of you know."

Enjolras isn't entirely sure if he should be insulted by that but since she hasn't appeared to take offence to his comment, he lets it go.

"It's not hypnotism," she continues, "Yes, if it works you should be in a dreamlike state but I don't put images in your head. I'm just a guide. I'll ask questions. You might see things from an outsider's perspective, like the narrator of a story, or you might be fully immersed in the life you're remembering. It varies depending on the person but I suspect, like your two friends, yours will be the latter. You'll hear my questions, you'll answer them but you won't be aware of it. At most my voice will be a quiet, inconsequential voice in the back of your head. You'll come out of the regression naturally. Most likely it'll be just before you die. The human brain tends to repress the actual moment."

There is something oddly comforting in the brisk, professional way that she speaks; there is surprisingly no nonsense, this is simply what she does for a living and she isn't trying to hide behind pantomime and mysterious rhetoric. But that doesn't make him any less doubtful.

"Okay," he says, "Let's just get this over with."

Once more she ignores the obvious scepticism.

"Listen to the music," she begins, "Your mind is so full of the troubles of this life but you must let them slip away," her voice is barely a whisper and there is a strangely lulling quality to it. Enjolras lets himself relax against the futon (did he? Or did his muscles do that themselves?). There's no _harm _in relaxing. All he has to do is keep his mind alert for any tricks that she might use to put images into his head, "Only when your mind is clear will you be able to access those memories, back beyond even this life. Try to remember a time you once lived but have since forgotten."

A sudden flash of a scene – only very briefly – a blood red flag waving proudly just in the corner of his peripheral vision but just as quickly as it appears it is gone and the darkness behind his eyelids return. His is trying to fight the heaviness in his head. He is still aware of the music and Fantine's voice. Are both quieter now or is that just his imagination? No, he can't fall asleep, he has to try and stay awake, "Remember back to who you were before now…"

Memories flash before his eyes at a sickening speed, playing in reverse too fast for him to grasp. He sees flashes of colours and flashes of faces and brief flashes of images;_ a large stately home. He is looking at it through a child's eyes_…fast forward…_he is slightly older and riding in a carriage going through Paris. He eats sweets from a bag offered by a pretty governess. With his mouth full of chocolate he looks out of the window and sees the homeless living in the street. Some are begging and others are staring at the carriage with dead eyes. His father sneers at them contemptuously and makes a comment about these creatures being back in their place now that the monarch is restored_…_he's in his early twenties and is sitting in a dorm room, reading Rousseau's _Social Contract_ by candlelight. The Republican ideal is place before him; a government that exists for the sole good of the people, one that is founded on virtue and where the needs of the many are placed before the needs of the few_…_his research on Rousseau, to his father's dismay, became research on the French Revolution as a whole. He speaks animatedly to Combeferre as they walk towards the Café Musain, "Burke is wrong to condemn the French Revolution!" he declares, "It was a time of glory. France was standing up for the principles of liberty, equality and fraternity. It was true republicanism, a true brotherhood under Patria! Why should we settle with the monarchy? Monarchy is self, despotic, only out for themselves. Look at all the suffering all around us and the king does nothing about it. No, I know how France can be glorious again!"_

...Suddenly the montage of images playing behind his eyelids comes to an abrupt stop...

_He's standing in the Café Musain surrounded by his comrades, his fellow citizens. He blinks a little to see all the familiar faces – Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre and Courfeyrac – but that's ridiculous. Why would their presence be strange to him? They're his friends, fellow members of Les Amis de L'ABC. It gives him heart to see them all; he would trust any of these men with his life! It takes a moment for him to regain his train of thought, "We ought to know where we stand and who we can count on," he says, "If we want fighters they need to be prepared."_

_He gives his best seven lieutenants their individual tasks to make sure that they still have allies and friends who will answer the call whenever it comes. The tension in Paris between the monarchy and the people is growing unbearable; something has to give and he has every intention of being fully prepared when it does. He realises that he has no-one to go to the Maine toll-gate to rally the art students. He had been hoping that Marius would show up but ever since finally meeting the girl he had been in love with for so long, he hasn't exactly been reliable. He supposes that he would have to do that himself when he finishes at the Courgourde. _

"_What about me?" Grantaire pipes up suddenly from the corner of the room, "I'm here."_

"_You?" Enjolras can't help but speak in a tone of disbelief. As usual he feels a familiar feeling of distaste at being addressed by the other man who is so ready with his tongue though hardly ever to say anything useful, "Why should I trust you to speak to the students at the toll-gate about Republican principles? You don't believe in anything."_

"_I believe in you." _

_He brushes off Grantaire's statement considering them only to be the ramblings of a drunken man, "Don't meddle in our affairs. Go and sleep off the effects of your absinthe."_

_Grantaire looks hurt at that, "You're heartless." _

"_As if you're capable!" _

"_I'm more than capable!" he proceeds to facetiously list off directions from the Musain to the Maine toll-gate, "My shoes are capable of that!"_

"_Do you know them all?" _

_Grantaire shrugs, "Not very well. But we're on friendly terms. I can talk to them about Robespierre. And Danton. About principles. I've read Social Contract. I know all about the rights of man, the sovereignty of the people. I can keep coming out with some wonderful things for a whole six hours!" _

"_Be serious," Enjolras replies, scowling. _

"_I am wild," he smiles a little. _

_Enjolras pauses for a moment. It is vital that someone go to the Maine toll-gate. The art students are important to the cause and God knows a fickle bunch. They could be impassioned about something one second and indifferent the next. He just can't allow them to be dispassionate when there is so much at stake. Grantaire is an art student himself – on those days where he's sober enough to actually attend class - so perhaps that could work in their favour. Besides, he seems eager to be given this chance to prove himself. Perhaps this is the push that Grantaire needed and if that be the case, then perhaps it will be wrong of him to deny it. _

"_Grantaire," he says with an air of decisiveness, "I agree to try you out. You'll go to the Maine toll-gate."_

* * *

_The next instant he is running down Rue Bassompierre, yelling "To the barricades!". The strange lapse of time only very fleetingly seems odd to him. It is happening; it is finally happening! General Lamarque had died about four days before and being the only person who stood up for the rights of the people, it is time for Paris to take matters into her own hands. The ABC society was among the first to take to the streets during Lamarque's funeral. Enjolras waved the red flag as a symbol of liberty and a beacon in which to call the people to arms. The procession had been interrupted by the arrival of dragoons and a few innocent citizens had been shot when they open fired on the rebels. Combeferre, always the most peaceful, had been the first to retaliate to this outrage and his anger was the spark that sent the rebels running to the barricades. Barricades are springing up all over Paris, their own being constructed outside the Corinth bar – the position of the tavern in relation to the street will give them a tactical advantage and the tavern itself is several storeys high so gunmen can be positioned in the window and shoot at the enemy from above. Furniture is piled in the street, everyone is contributing to the cause, and Enjolras allows himself a smile at seeing his dreams come to fruition. The people are finally saying no more than the tyranny of the monarchy. Soon word will spread all over Paris and the citizens will come in their thousands. The Second Republic that will be born of this will be more glorious and longer lasting than the first._

* * *

_Grantaire is drunk. Enjolras is hardly surprised and yet to see him standing – swaying – at the window of the Corinth also brings with it that kind of weary disappointment that comes with the confirmation of an unpleasant truth. He hasn't forgotten Grantaire's failure at the Maine toll-gate; after finishing at Courgourde Enjolras had gone to see if Grantaire had made progress and instead found the other man completely absorbed in a game of dominoes. It had been clear that he had not even made an attempt to speak about the rights of man, or principles, or any of the other boasts he had made at the Musain. Now there is this…the barricade is no place for drunkards and cynics. _

"_Grantaire!" he shouts coldly from the ridge of the barricade, "Go and wallow in your drunkenness elsewhere! You're a disgrace to the barricade!" _

_His words have the desired effect. Grantaire gives a start as if he has been struck in the face and then his eyes clear as if he is suddenly stone cold sober. _

"_You know," he replies in a soft, strange voice, "I believe in you."_

_Enjolras doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to hear anything this man has to say for himself. He has given him chance after chance, "Go away! You haven't the will to do anything – to believe, to think, to live, to die."_

_And Enjolras doesn't know why it matters to him so much. _

_Grantaire sinks down onto a chair. _

"_You'll see," he replies solemnly. _

_Within a few moments he has fallen asleep._

* * *

"_Who are you?" he coolly asks the man who Gavroche has just asserted to be a spy. The man – middle aged and severe looking – looks up at him with an expression of upmost disdain but makes no answer, "You're a nark?" he persists and though it's a question, it isn't one that he necessarily needs an answer to. The man's previous silence said enough._

_The spy makes no attempt to deny it, "I'm an officer of the law."_

_Within a few moments the man – Inspector Javert – has been tied to a pillar in the Corinth. Enjolras watches the entire spectacle unfold calmly. His lip twists in disgust. _

"_You will be shot two minutes before the barricade is taken," he informs the man._

* * *

"_Who goes there?" the soldier's voice cries out in the darkness from the other side of the barricade. Enjolras tightens his grip on the barrel of his rifle,_

"_French Revolution!" he yells back with pride. _

_A pause. Then…_

"_FIRE!" _

_The battle begins in a chaotic explosion of enemy gunpowder; bullets ricochet against the barricade in a ruthless attack. The enemy is numerous – more so than there is defending the barricade. At least until the people rise. However, the students have the tactical advantage; Enjolras has made sure of that. There is no point in wasting bullets until the enemy is close and for the time being they are more or less covered. _

_However, sooner than he would have thought possible he can see the silver glimmer of bayonets swaying above the barricade and for the first time Enjolras feels a slight twist of panic – it's impossible not to. Municipal Guardsmen are climbing the barricade or making an attempt to infiltrate the slight gap at the side which was left for the necessity of reconnaissance. There are more than can be shot at. _

_Bahorel is the first to react to the sudden danger. He leaps forward and shots a soldier at close range with his rifle but has barely the time to enjoy the victory when a bayonet thrust from a second soldier catches him on the chest. He falls back, eyes wide open in death. Out of the corner of Enjolras' eye he can see that Courfeyrac has been knocked down by a soldier but he can offer no assistance; the guards on the barricade are too numerous and to take his eyes off the enemy for even a second can be the difference between life and death. There is not even time to be scared. Smoke fills the air and his battle-sharpened senses immediately spot the danger. _

"_Wait!" he yells, "Don't fire at random! You don't want to hurt any of your comrades!" _

_He notices that many have fallen back and are shooting at the gendarmes from the first floor window of the Corinth but he rushes forward to face the enemy head on with Combeferre, Courfeyrac – who must have been rescued – and Jean Prouvaire at his side. It is clear that they are being overwhelmed and the barricade will not hold out for long but there is no thought of surrender. If he is to die, he will be proud to die with these men at his side. _

"_Fall back! Fall back or I blow the barricade!" the sudden voice that rings out is loud, fearsome and oddly familiar. Through the haze of smoke Enjolras can just make out the figure standing atop the barricade. Marius?! At first he is bewildered – Marius hadn't been on the barricade before – but then comes to the sudden realization that the young man, dismissed as everyone as a dreamer, is holding a flaming torch in one hand and a barrel of gunpowder tipped precariously towards it in the other. He feels a mixture of both pride and fear; if Marius blows the barricade, he is likely to kill everyone. Yet this impulsive action is exactly the kind of heroism that the Revolution needs. Marius's face is resolute and everyone is looking at him. _

"_Blow it up and take yourself with it!" a sergeant snaps back in an attempt to call Marius out on what he probably expects to be a bluff._

_There is a pause in which no-one dares to breathe before Marius nods his head gravely, "And myself with it."_

_As he brings the torch closer to the powder keg Enjolras dares not look away. The sergeant loses heart,_

"_BACK!" he yells. Within a moment the barricade is cleared._

_The joy of Marius's heroic act – for which Enjolras is happy to name him leader for – is short-lived. After taking note of the dead, a roll call of the survivors is taken. Jean Prouvaire is not on either list. It doesn't take long for them to deduce that he has been taken prisoner by the enemy side. The decision is made that they will offer up the life of the spy in exchange for Jehan – it is perhaps the easiest decision that Enjolras has made so far. He wants the spy dead, of course, but he is not willing to sacrifice the life of his friend for that. The life of a spy is not worth so hefty a price. Combeferre is just in the process of tying a handkerchief around his cane as an impromptu flag of truce when Enjolras hears the ominous clattering noise coming from down the street. It feels like an icy cold hand has gripped his heart. He grabs Combeferre's forearm to still him._

"_Listen!" he hisses through gritted teeth. Once more a silence falls on the Corinth. _

_He hears a male voice cry out, "Long live France! Long live the future!" _

_It is a voice that is made to recite lines of sweet poetry. It is a voice that is barely heard to be more than just a soft whisper and yet one which now cries out resolutely and with the upmost fearlessness even in the face of death. _

_There is a flash of light and a blast of gunfire._

_The silence that follows is more horrible than the first, more horrible even than the silence that followed Marius's threat. Everyone stares towards the end of the street with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Everyone heard but no-one wants to believe. No one _can _believe. _

"_They've killed him!" Combeferre says in horror. Enjolras, his muscles tensed to stop himself from trembling with barely suppressed rage, turns to Inspector Javert. Standing before him is a representative of the tyranny that they are fighting. This tyranny has subjugated the onward march of progress for too long and too many innocent lives have been claimed. This man might as well have pulled the trigger that claimed Jean Prouvaire's life. His voice comes out much calmer than he is truly feeling and he says with all the grim solemnity of a judge passing an irrevocable sentence, "Your friends have killed you as well."_

* * *

_It isn't supposed to be like this. The people are supposed to rise. The news that theirs is the only barricade left is a crushing blow. Enjolras looks around at those who remain; Marius, the older gentlemen who had saved his life the night before, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly who is holding hands with Bossuet as if he is afraid to let go. He could see the fear in their eyes as they look to him beseechingly for some sort of encouragement. He isn't sure what to say. He looks down at the corpse of little Gavroche who was shot in the head by some soldier or another. Just a child. _

"_The day will come, citizens," he begins slowly, "When all will be concord, harmony, light joy and life," as he speaks, his words gain conviction, "It will come. And it's so that it does that we are going to die."_

_The people did not rise because of fear but it is fear that he is not going to show. There will be no faltering, no surrendering. They are going to continue their fight for freedom down to the very last man. This final stand will be for the Republic, for those who have already died to defend it. _

_After all, liberty also means freedom to die on your terms. _

* * *

"_Shoot me!" he says, throwing aside the remains of his rifle and offering his chest to the twelve soldiers who are aiming their rifles at him. Though he wears his fierce pride outwardly, deep down he is bone-weary. He has not been injured in the battle but the blood that drenches him head to toe is the blood of his friends. Not a single one of them have survived; they all died fighting for freedom and for the Republic and he is ready to join them in death._

"_Take aim!" the sergeant orders. _

_There will be no quailing, no begging for his life, defiant until the very end. _

"_Long live the Republic!" a voice cries out. Grantaire appears from a corner of the room, a corner that is hidden from the view of the soldiers. Enjolras has given the cynic no thought from the night before and the rush of emotions he feels to see him standing there is indescribable. The corner is hidden. If he had not rose he would have walked away with his life, "Long live the Republic!" he repeats, his blue eyes filled with a fire that Enjolras has never thought him capable of – as if he has been transfigured from the drunken cynic to the very spirit of the revolution. He strides across the room and takes his place next to Enjolras in front of the guns. The soldiers, clearly taken aback or perhaps in awe of this single act from this one man, don't react. _

"_Might as well kill two birds with one stone," Grantaire says to the sergeant then turns to Enjolras. He bites his bottom lip nervously before asking, "Do you permit it?" _

You wouldn't put yourself in the firing line if it was life or death _the strange thought came to Enjolras unbidden. He doesn't know where it had come from – perhaps somewhere deep in his subconscious – but he knows it to be wrong. The moment is so intimate that for a second it is as if the soldiers aren't there. His heart flares – this infuriating, cynical man is willingly choosing to sacrifice himself…for the Republic? Somehow he doesn't think that is it. It never has been. And Enjolras, so caught up in his desire to change the world has never seen it before. Or, if he has, has never for a moment _allowed _himself to consider…well, what did it matter now? _

_Enjolras simply takes Grantaire's hand and smiles. He doesn't even hear the sergeant's call of "Fire!" _

Enjolras returns to the present with an abruptness as if…well, as if he has just been shot. He sits bolt upright, panting for breath as if every gasp of air will be his last. His hands scramble over his chest in search for invisible bullet-holes. He nearly jumps right out of his skin when a hand settles on his shoulder,

"You're okay," Fantine's gentle voice says, "You're home now."

"Home?" It takes him several moments to find his bearings; that's right, he _isn't _a revolutionary. At least, not anymore. He is a twenty-two year old politics student at the University of Paris. It is the year 2013, not 1832…and yet so much of his life seems to coincide with what he had seen in his memories that differentiating between who he is and who he had been is hard. He is in Mademoiselle Fantine's office having been forced there by a wager. None of his friends are dead. Yet he can't banish the image of those deaths that he had witnessed and it makes him feel sick. He falls back against the futon and tries to regulate his breathing.

"I should have warned you. When your brain is immersed in a memory like that, it takes a while for your mind to adjust to the new information when you come to the present," Fantine said, "I'm sorry."

Enjolras scrubs hard at his eyes with the heel of his hands. His thoughts are all over the place, conflicting between the old memories and the new ones. His mind eventually settles on one particular figure – _Grantaire_, "I've been so hard on him all this time," he says, almost to himself.

"You weren't to know," Fantine replies and Enjolras finally understands that secret smile. Grantaire's memories…she had known. She had known from the second Enjolras entered the room what he was going to see.

_Perhaps it's one of those occasions were the auras that seem the most opposite are actually the most compatible._

"And the others…when I first met them it was like I had known them…" he laughs at this admission though it isn't at all funny. His entire belief structure has pretty much been demolished and given that logic and reason has failed him, he doesn't know how he ought to react.

"It seems to me that you've been afforded a rare opportunity," Fantine observes, "Not many people come into their next lives with all their friends at their side."

Enjolras sits up again then, "But…what does it mean?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that. It could be that you all have a purpose in this life, a purpose that was cut short in the last."

"Maybe it's to fix a mistake I made in the last life…" his thoughts once again return to Grantaire.

"Perhaps it's a question that's not meant to be answered," Fantine's eyes twinkle mysteriously and she smiles warmly, "Who knows what providence has in store? I would quite simply recommend that, until the true purpose comes to you, you just simply enjoy the miracle that the universe has given you," she sighs, "I'm afraid that's our time up."

Enjolras stands up and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, "Well…uhh…thank you Mademoiselle."

"You're very welcome."

He re-enters the waiting room. His heart gives a strange little leap when his eyes fall on Grantaire. Everything has somehow changed…or rather; he is finally allowing himself to admit things that he has known all along.

"Let's just both me grateful that Prouvaire isn't the type to say "I told you so"," Grantaire says as a way of a greeting.

Neither says anything more as they make their way out of the building to where Enjolras's car is parked. Although Grantaire also owns a car, it's an old clunker of a thing that looks one journey away from breaking down (the only reason Enjolras suspects it's lasted this long is that R is only very rarely sober enough to drive it), so he just walked there.

"Well," Grantaire says, "I guess this is where we go our separate ways."

He turns to leave.

"Wait!" Enjolras says more abruptly that he might have liked. Grantaire spins back round on his heels, his eyebrows disappearing underneath his hair in surprise. A very awkward pause follows, "Do you…?" Enjolras prides himself on his eloquence but words are failing him. He inwardly gives himself a shake. It's only five more words, how difficult could it be? "…want to go for coffee?"

"Coffee?" Grantaire repeats. His face betrays absolutely nothing.

"Yeah. There's a coffee shop nearly. I just thought…"

"We could talk about our past-life regressions," Grantaire finishes the sentence with a teasing laugh. It isn't quite what Enjolras was going to say, "I guess you're a believer now, eh?"

"And you're not?" Enjolras replies with a frown.

Grantaire grins but doesn't answer the question, "Sure, we can go for coffee," he smirks, "But you're paying."

Enjolras rolls his eyes but his own mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile, "Deal."

Ten minutes later they are sitting by the window in a small but pretty coffee shop. Enjolras, not quite over his experience with past-life regression, had more trouble than he cares to admit with finding that his wallet contains euros and not francs. Grantaire hasn't exactly fared much better, staring at his phone for a good five minutes before asking Enjolras, "How do you unlock this thing again?"

"You wanted to talk about our experience so let's talk," Grantaire says, "What did you see?"

Enjolras stirs his drink as he tries to think of what to say. Could he just blurt out everything? He wonders how it would sound. For the second time, his eloquence fails him.

"You said it yourself, let's just be grateful Jehan isn't the type to brag," Enjolras responds, looking determinedly at the foam on his latte and not at Grantaire, "It was 1832, we were on the barricades and we were all killed."

He, so adamant against being seen as coward, chickens out of giving any specific details.

"Ah," Grantaire replies in a strange voice. Enjolras allows himself to look up. If Grantaire seen the same thing, he is doing a damn good job of hiding it. His gaze is turned out of the window.

"What about you? What did you see?"

Grantaire looks thoughtful for a minute, "It was the eighth century," he says and doesn't seem to notice the look Enjolras gives him, "I was a monk at Lindisfarne-" he chuckles, "-me! A monk! Then again, you know what they say; the most cynical are the ones who once had the most faith. Anyway. Our monastery was attacked by Vikings. Most of my fellow monks were killed but some of us were taken as slaves. The leader liked me because I could speak Old Norse so he took me as a slave and asked me all these questions about England. Everyone else who was taken from the monastery ended up dead but my master was decent for a heathen. He treated me as a friend and I practically became a member of the family! I lived among them so long that I ended up losing my faith and going against just about every single one of my vows as a monk," he shakes his head, "I was a virgin until I was like twenty-five. How embarrassing is that?! I assimilated into the culture. Then a plague wiped out most of the area where I lived, myself included," he sighs, "I was hoping for a more exciting death like an axe to the face or something," he concludes with a shrug.

Enjolras studies him closely. Given that past lives exist is it possible that a human soul could flit from life to life, being reborn repeatedly during different periods of history? If that's the case then perhaps it's entirely random what life you see when you go to a past life regression. It's entirely possible that he saw something else.

Then again…the corner of Grantaire's mouth twitches upwards ever so slightly.

"You just made that up!" Enjolras challenges. Grantaire bursts out laughing,

"So you _were _paying attention the other day!" he beams, "Yes, I made that up but you have to admit, you almost believed me for a second."

Enjolras's eyes briefly flickers down to where Grantaire's hand is resting on the table. Without thinking he reaches out and puts his own hand on top of it,

"Be serious," he says gently. Grantaire starts and looks down and his expression is almost one of wonder as he sees Enjolras's hand over his own. He glances up and a warm smile crosses his face. His reply is hardly a whisper,

"I am wild."

Neither of them would ever know who moved forward first but the next second their lips have met. This time there will be no mistakes; they have over 180 years to make up for and time is finally on their side.


End file.
